Panic Attack
by rosetyler39
Summary: It has been a month since Sherlock came back to John, and all seems well. At least until a case leads the two right back to Bart's roof, causing John to have a bit of a panic attack, resulting in a guilty Sherlock and a heartfelt apology. Maybe a bit O.O.C. depending on how you look at it.


**Hello, sweeties! **

**So... short version: not dead. Hehe. Yeah. I know it's been a while. **

**I am trying to get the sequel to 'Sentiment' written. But writer's block is unforgiving. Meh.**

**So, since my brain will not think of things to write for my sequel at the moment, I decided to write something a bit angsty to pass the time. So here you go.**

**Enjoy! :D**

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It had been at least a month since John had been reunited with Sherlock. He was still extremely pissed at the man. And nightmares still plagued his sleep. But he just repressed it all. Sherlock was alive. That's all he needed to be happy.

Lestrade had called Sherlock and John to a crime scene (or, he called Sherlock, and Sherlock reiterated the message to John). Apparently, a man had been shot and killed. Same-old, same-old.

John had absolutely no idea where the crime scene was. Sherlock tended to keep that information from him. But he didn't mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed the spontaneity of these cases. So off the doctor was again, struggling to catch up with the speedy man in the black coat, without any inkling of where in the hell they were going. John barely noticed his surroundings; he was so focused on the detective. All he knew was that he was inside a building and racing up numerous flights of steps, his legs burning for a rest. Soon, he felt himself slowing down. Sherlock had stopped, so obviously, they had arrived at the crime scene. John couldn't really tell though; his eyes were closed as he tried to recover from the decent amount of exercise he had just gotten. He verified this conclusion in his head, however, when he heard the familiar sounds of Lestrade and Sherlock mumbling and cameras flashing and Donovan… well, being her usual unpleasant self. Yep. The crime scene.

With one last deep breath, John opened his eyes again.

And he immediately wished he hadn't.

His heart dropped. He was outside.

On a roof.

On the roof of Saint Bart's.

Where Sherlock fell.

He stumbled a little bit, his vision starting to blur. He couldn't help but start to hyperventilate.

He thought he had moved past this. But no. He was here.

Remembering.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to remember!

_Panicking. Panicking! PANICKING!_

He felt himself collapsing to the ground, backing up against the wall of the roof's entrance.

_He was looking up at the roof of St. Bart's, holding his cell phone and talking to Sherlock._

"_This phone call, it's… um… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_What the hell was he talking about?!_

"John? John! Sherlock, get over here!" a voice called in the distance.

"_Leave a note when?!" Tears stung in the doctor's eyes._

"_Goodbye, John."_

_John's heart was racing._

"_No. Don't," his pleas warbled with his voice._

"What's the matter? What is it? John?" John felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

_He saw the detective throw his phone onto the roof. No. No! He couldn't do this!_

"_Sherlock!" John cried up to the rooftop._

"John? John!" A voice cried his name. But it sounded so far away.

_Then Sherlock fell. Flailing in the air._

"_Sherl…" John said in a whisper. He couldn't believe it. No. This wasn't happening._

_Then the crunch. That sickening crunch. No. No! NO! SHERLOCK, NO!_

"John! Can you hear me, John?! John, snap out of it! John!"

John snapped to attention. His vision cleared, revealing two concerned-looking men; Lestrade and Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

The name caused his head to throb.

_He… no… he's dead… or he was… he wasn't… faked it… all a lie… he's here. He's safe. He's alive. Oh my God. Calm down. You're recovering from a panic attack. Oh God…_

"Sherl… oh God…" John said, trying to regulate his breathing. "Sherlock… the roof…" He swallowed a hard lump that had developed in his throat. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. "Oh God."

Sherlock wrapped his arms protectively around John and carefully lifted him into a standing position.

"Lestrade, I need to get him out of here," he said to the DI, who nodded in response.

Sherlock carefully guided John back down the steps and out the front doors of the hospital. He then brought the still shaken doctor over to a nearby bench and sat down with him, rubbing his arm up and down gently.

John trembled. He remembered it all so vividly.

Sherlock falling.

All over again.

"What happened, John?" Sherlock said, taking a serious tone.

John only stared off into the middle distance.

"John," Sherlock said sternly. "You had a flashback, correct?"

John gulped, then managed a nod.

"Right," Sherlock said in response, guilt tracing his voice. He carefully took his arms off of the good doctor.

"The nightmares… they weren't so bad… but this… oh God…" John said, his voice quavering.

"Nightmares?"

John had never said anything about nightmares.

Sherlock felt a heaviness in his chest which he immediately recognized. John had described it to him before, but Sherlock had never personally experienced it. And it felt so much worse than he could have possibly imagined.

Guilt.

Sherlock saw John tremble, making him frown.

"You're trembling, John."

John chuckled nervously.

"Am I, now? Well that's a bit embarrassing."

Quickly, Sherlock whipped off his Belstaff coat and wrapped it around John's vulnerable form. John gripped the coat's lining, his knuckles turning white. He swallowed the knot in his throat and continued taking deep breaths.

"Oh God… Sherlock I… I'm sorry you have to see me like this…"

Sherlock placed his pale, slender hand gently on John's shoulder.

"It is I who should apologize to you, John. This… this is all my fault. I should have revealed myself to you sooner. I just… I was only trying to protect you, and… well, I've done a great job so far…" Sherlock said, mentally kicking himself for being so detrimental to John's health.

The tension that kept John's jaw clenched lessened as he listened to Sherlock.

"It's fine," he said, an obvious tremor still dominating his usually calm-sounding voice.

Sherlock growled out of frustration.

"No, it's not John. Don't say that it is. Any blind fool could see that! The evidence is there to prove that this situation is far from "fine". You had a _panic attack_, and I am the reason for it!"

John was shocked at the amount of emotion coming out of the sociopath which he had come to know over the years. It was a bit frightening.

Sherlock continued.

"What I did…" The detective took in a breath between clenched teeth. "What I did to you… the pain and the scarring… I can never take that back. I can never make you forget. At the time… oh God…" Sherlock ran a hand through his black ringlets. "I… at the time… I honestly thought that what I did would have no effect on you. Protecting you was the only thing on my mind, and it never once occurred to me that you'd take it so harshly. My intentions were good. But it seems as if my attempts at saving your life only jeopardized it further."

John sighed a shaky sigh, trying to shake off the fear which had consumed him mere moments ago. He tentatively reached out his still trembling hand and placed it on Sherlock's bony shoulder.

"Sherlock…" he said with a swallow. "I am still incredibly pissed at you for what you did. It… well… it certainly impacted my life quite negatively, as you, quite surprisingly, pointed out. So hearing you admitting to your own screw-up… well, it's validating." John chuckled. "But, being completely honest, I hadn't expected you to substitute a shock blanket with your Belstaff. I think that's redemption enough. It's obvious you give a shit, which gives _me _enough incentive to try to forgive you."

Sherlock's look softened into one of guilt.

"You can never fully forgive me. Of that I am sure."

John's lips thinned into a straight line.

"You're right. But that doesn't mean I can't try."

John gingerly took the coat off.

"Here," he said, wrapping the coat right back around Sherlock. "Take your coat back. It's freezing out here. Last thing I need is for you to _actually_ die from pneumonia."

Sherlock tried to resist.

"Take the bloody coat, you idiot."

Sherlock looked at him with uncertainty.

"I think I'm done panicking."

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**Reviews are always very much appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it! :D**


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